Chapter 26 Rhea #2
“I didn’t want the valet driving my truck, so I took it around back.
Checked on Boone,” Brighton cuts me off as I open my mouth.
“Do you want a drink?” He asks me, his arm leaving mine as he steps away.
I nod, and he takes his leave, but not before stopping abruptly, “Come on, Christopher, I’ll buy you a beer. ”
“It’s Christian,” he snaps, looking over Kaia’s shoulder.
“I know,” Brighton says without missing a beat, but Christian follows and leaves us to talk.
“It’s an open bar…” Sunday whispers, confused.
“What really happened?” Cosy eyes me, she’s wearing baby blue, and it fits her perfectly. It pushes up her breasts and hugs her waist in the right spot.
“Wasn’t prepared for all the press outside, we came in the back,” I admit.
“Okay, well, we’re inside now, you look like a goddess, and you managed to get my brother in a suit,” Sunday praises.
She’s in the most adorable indigo pant suit without a shirt underneath, and out of the four outfits, she’s got the least amount of clothing on but looks sharp and mean.
I love it. “So let's make the most of it.”
I roll my shoulders back, forcing that confidence through me. I take a second to forget about the sadness and shove through the disappointment that stings at the corners of my eyes. Do this for yourself and no one else.
“Let’s fucking party.” I push a grin to my face, and the girls start cheering.
An hour later, after dinner and a string of horrendous speeches, the girls and I are messing around on the open dance floor to a mix of late-2000s club music and passing around the crystal plaque with my name etched on it.
The sadness is at bay, and I feel like I can fly… which may or may not be the gin talking, but at this point. Who cares?
I slip from the circle to find water, and Brighton is standing against the bar, talking to Boone with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the room.
I watch him for a second, taking in the way his jaw tightens when he hears a loud noise and loosens when his brother says something.
He’s perplexing and confusing, all while being one of the most straightforward, no-nonsense people I’ve ever met.
He pulls his hand out of his pocket, leaning over the bar, and pops the lid on a water bottle with his thumb before handing it to me.
“They’re going to break that.” He nods to Kaia, twerking on the glass award in Sunday's hand as she pretends to slap Kaia’s ass with it.
“Oh well,” I shrug and start to laugh again. “They're having fun. Do you even know what that is, Killjoy?”
Brighton sighs.
I try not to care. The speech left me sweaty and uncomfortable under a row of hot lights and unable to see the faces that mattered.
Not to mention telling a story about the struggles of being a female athlete to a room full of rich, white men who didn’t understand the plot point was infuriating.
Next year, they would be praising some other girl, younger and faster than me.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to be proud of my accomplishments, but it’s hard when I’m constantly cheering myself on in a society that doesn’t give a shit about women’s sports.
Addy would be furious: “Make them give a shit, Reaper.”
I wish she were here tonight to see this.
I think about pulling out my phone, but don’t want to risk the drunk tears to do it.
And just like that, the sadness creeps back uninvited.
Mom hasn’t even responded to the picture of the award.
I take another slow drink of water to bring myself back from the ledge.
I wish the girls didn’t have to carry the burden of making me feel loved; it’s not their job, and they do their fair share of hollering, but…
It’s different knowing their families would be here for them tonight. They’d drop everything for them.
Like the girls do for you. I smile, staring at them, still being lunatics. This is what matters, this is who matters. So if they break the award, who cares, because knowing the girls, they’ll glue the pieces back together—just like they’ve done with me.
Brighton stares at me like I’m insane, and I probably look like it.
“Do you want to dance?” His voice cuts through the thoughts, and I realize that the music has slowed in the distance.
“Uh,” I look around to see that all the girls have found partners. Sunday is dancing with Cosy’s brother, Van, and she’s found a cute, older basketball player to lean her head on. Kaia is noticeably missing, but the chances that Christian is causing shit somewhere are high, so it leaves me alone.
Always too tall. Always alone. I hate this. I shouldn’t have worn the heels.
“Take them off then,” he says, and I turn to look at him.
Shit, I said that out loud. I need to work on that.
“Oh yeah, cause that won’t draw attention,” I sigh.
“Offer’s only being made once.” He was serious.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to,” I say, forcing him to be here is already a lot, and I don’t want him going out of his way the rest of the night.
“Don’t tell me you can’t slow dance.” He stares at me.
The jab is harmless, but it settles against my chest because it’s not just that I don’t know how.
I’ve never been asked. Brighton studies my expression, and his jaw tightens, but he extends his hand to me.
I watch as his approach to the situation shifts.
“You dragged me here tonight, the least you could do is stop being a coward and dance with your date.”
The tone he uses makes it clear that he reads me like a book, turning it around on himself—like I’m doing him the favor.
I look down at his hand, scarred and having seen so much of the world, and it makes me terrified to take it.
It shakes gently, a tremor he can’t control.
He gives me grace and waits, but I can tell he’s trying not to fidget because his entire body is rigid.
“Take my hand, Hellcat. Please.”
When we finally meet eyes, the storm is gone, and his blue eyes are calm, waiting for me to take a risk, so I slide my hand against his with a tiny, nervous groan.
“Shoes?” He gives me an unimpressed nod, and I laugh, kicking them off. He scoops down and grabs them with his other hand before holding them out to Boone over the bar and leading me through the sea of bodies to the dance floor.
“Here.” He places my hand on his shoulder. “And here.” His other hand slides into mine, pressing our palms flat together. He pulls me closer to his chest and slowly starts to move his feet, giving me time to follow his feet as he glides us around in a soft circle to the music.
“Rhea, you have to let me lead,” he murmurs when I trip over him again.
“Sorry,” I grumble and try to pull back from him. “We don’t have to do this. It’s stupid.”
“It’s a square,” he says and tightens his hold on me. “Follow the play. One,” he ignores my protest to abandon the dance and side steps with one foot leading, “two.” He moves that same foot back, “three.” He steps to the other side and, on four, moves forward.
My movements start to become less clumsy, and eventually, we’re moving together in a smooth rhythm with many fewer mistakes.
“Where did you learn to do this?” I ask.
“Men are resourceful, Rhea, especially when they want to impress someone.” It’s meant to be nonchalant, but my muscles go tight at the thought of him doing it for a girl. “What?” he asks, noticing the shift.
“I guess, I just never took the Terminator for the kind of guy that would learn to dance to get laid,” I let out a tiny laugh, and his hand tightens around mine.
“Despite popular belief and vicious rumors,” he tilts his head down to catch my eyes, and I feel the heat rise on my neck. “I’m not made of cold metal and robot organs,” he smirks.
“Was that a joke?” I snort, and he spins us in a quick circle that leaves me struggling to keep up, but that's the point because his hand slips down my back and rests against the bare skin. I’m suddenly very aware of every scar, every callous that stains his palm, and I can barely breathe.
“Being able to dance doesn’t make me soft,” he explains, his eyes back to scanning the room around us.
Always watching. At first, I thought it was him just being careful at the Hollow; things usually go wrong in a matter of seconds, and drunks can be unpredictable.
But as I get to know him, I realized that it’s not that at all.
He watches for danger. It’s instinct. It’s the trained behavior of a man scared of the world.
“I never implied you were soft,” I tease, and he spins me around in the other direction.
Brighton Black is anything but soft, my brain screams as I dig my fingers into his bicep to keep upright.
All the shots and drinks are starting to get to my head, but the dancing is amplifying the dizzy feeling in my chest and head.
“It’s a welcome surprise that you can dance.
I’m sure that it’s a good party trick to get the girls.
” I say with a small laugh. “Mission accomplished.”
“I learned for Daisy,” he says quietly, like it’s obvious, and I turn my chin up to look at him again.
“Oh.” The information catches me off guard in the most genuine way, and I hate how muted the music becomes in my ears when he meets my softened gaze with his own.
His jaw ticks, and before he speaks again, his tongue wets his bottom lip.
“I knew eventually she’d need me to know how, and I wanted to be prepared. ”
“That’s much sweeter motivation than I expected,” I admit. “Maybe there’s a beating heart beneath all that metal after all.” I move my hand to poke his chest.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, grabbing my wrist to trap it against him and leaning my entire body back toward the ground in a low dip. “I have a reputation to uphold.” He pulls me back up against his chest as the music swells—and then he just looks at me.
I open my mouth to be an idiot. The liquor gives me the worst kind of confidence, but before I can say something stupid, he spins me outward toward where the girls have started to dance together again and lets go of my fingers before backing away into the crowd and disappearing.